


How I Wish This Night Were Silent

by semi_sweet



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Blowjobs, Christmas, Dating, Ever - Freeform, Fluff, Kidfic, M/M, No band, Oral, Sex, Smut, Teacher AU, Teacher!patrick, Tinder, a bit of a mess but kinda sweet, choir, dad!pete, dancer!pete, festive glory, finally i have avoided angst, kids can't sing, patrick's not hugely confident, pete's daughter knows what she wants, pls give it a go you might enjoy it, present day, this is bad in an endearing way, this is fluff and smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 21:36:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17169833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semi_sweet/pseuds/semi_sweet
Summary: Patrick's a music teacher and kids' choir conductor trying to prepare a group of 30 tone-deaf children for a Christmas concert. One of those happens to be Mia Wentz, daughter of a certified Hot Dad.





	How I Wish This Night Were Silent

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovelies hope you've had a nice Christmas. This isn't especially good but it's an endearing kinda bad, thrown together in under a week, not proofread, not beta'd and finished about five minuted prior to posting. I hope you like it and have a nice boxing day uwu. you can find me on [tumblr](https://scmi-sweet.tumblr.com/) pls feel free to say hi and tell me what Patrick's tinder bio would be because I've had many an internal debate about it.

Patrick can’t suppress the wince that comes with the dissonant chord that echoes around the room in the form of thirty tone-deaf children’s voices doing everything but harmonise with his piano. As his inner music teacher screams, he forces himself to push on rather then stand up in a huff and smack the dust cover back over the worn-out keys. Six notes ring out of the piano and thirty pre-pubescent voices ring back, each hitting a thoroughly different note than the one next to them. Gradually, Patrick is beginning to regret volunteering as the choir conductor.  _ It’s a more practical approach to music teaching _ , they said,  _ it’ll be fun _ , they said, wll right about now Patrick wishes he had the same amount of wisdom as his teenage self when it comes to the world of music. There was a time when he used to always carry a set of earplugs, just in case, you never knew if you’d end up at a show that night, better safe than deaf. 

 

Now, 35, lazy, tubby and apparently stupid, he can’t even be bothered to go to any shows that don’t have reasonable seating, let alone spontaneously launch himself into the nearest pit. He fears for his eardrums as they gradually approach the high bit, which Mariah had no problem pulling off but little Lily Margot who is convinced she’s the next Joan Sutherland. Not that she knows who Joan Sutherland was… not that  _ any  _ of them know who Joan Sutherland was. Nevertheless, she belts out that  _ YOOUU  _ like her life depends on it and Patrick’s hoping he’s insured for hearing damage as his left ear begins to ring. Maybe he should have gone for White Christmas after all… but if the kids want Mariah, the kids get Mariah. He tries not to stress out over the fact that the christmas concert is less than four weeks away. It’s fine, he’s fine, he has it all under control.

 

Thirty minutes later and he’s wondering if a mosquito has taken up permanent residence inside his ear canal, he knows he shouldn’t be stabbing around in there with a q-tip but it’s definitely tempting. They’re even noisy as they storm out of the classroom, the girls screeching and the boys yelling as they storm towards the stairs in what appears to be a prearranged game of catch Patrick himself is not in on. He pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts the heavy, wooden door behind them, turning back to the 25 uncorrected homework books on his desk he’s been meaning to get around to for three days, he  _ promises _ he’s not deliberately putting them off, stuff just keeps coming up.

 

About halfway through Michael Porter, Patrick is torn out of his tunnel-vision by a thumping at the door and the sound of it brushing over the wooden floor. He squints at the intruder from behind his glasses, more than a little pissed off that he seemingly can’t get just a few minutes’ of peace and quiet  _ anywhere _ . Through the crack in the door, he spots a large afro neatly gathered in two bunches on the top of the little girl’s head, her big, brown eyes nervously staring at him from a round little face. Mia, Patrick thinks her name is. Yes, Mia Wentz, that’s the one. At least he hopes it is when he asks her: “What’s up, Mia?” 

 

He thinks he hears another voice from outside in the hallway and suddenly, she stumbles forward as though driven on by a little nudge. Patrick’s about to ask again, the little girl biting at the nail on her thumb nervously, when he sees whoever had been standing behind her. The man pokes his head in, carefully pushing along the kid as he waddles in behind her. Oh, but he’s pretty, angular jaw, pouty lips, light stubble and the same gorgeous, golden eyes as Mia. This must be her dad. 

 

“Uuuh…” he stutters as he forgets just what exactly he was going to say or what he’s doing here, what’s this again? The man waddles towards him, Mia still practically clinging to his legs. He holds out a hand - Patrick’s NOT staring, okay? He just couldn’t NOT notice the hint of a tattoo poking out from beneath the sleeve of his coat - and smiles warmly.

 

“Pete Wentz. Mia’s dad.” Wordlessly, Patrick takes it and gives it a squeeze, trying to pull himself together because this is just getting embarrassing now, come on. He’s out of the age where he gapes after hot guys. Still, his voice almost gives up on his as he croaks his response.

 

“Patrick. Stumph. The music teacher… you knew that, I’m not sure why I… nevermind.” Pete looks amused, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile as his brows chase his hairline. Patrick can feel himself redden. Best not to talk.

 

“I just, uhm… sorry for interrupting, Mia forgot her scarf, I was wondering…”

 

“Yes. I uh... Yes. Over there. I think. Is that hers? She was standing there. I think.” Pete’s eyes followed the direction his finger is pointing in and smiles widely when he spots the little yellow and orange woolly scarf. It looks homemade. Maybe lovingly knitted by her nan. Or mother. Probably the nan. That seemed a safe bet. 

 

“Go on, get it, sweet.” Mia hop-skips across the room, grabbing for the scarf and hugging it furiously. Her big, scared eyes are replaced with a happy little expression, a grin splitting her face as Pete wraps it around her. 

 

“Thanks. Sorry for the interruption, but it’s… she really likes that scarf. And it’s cold right now, so, yanno…” Patrick wants to reassure Pete that his interruption was far from an annoyance to him, kind of wants to fling his phone number at the guy and ask if he’d like to come round for biscuits and cuddles because it’s Christmas. He placates himself with noting that Pete’s left hand is missing a wedding ring. 

 

“It’s fine, really, no problem at all, anytime, really, I’ll give you all the scarves you want!” as his mouth runs away with him, he quietly curses himself, willing his brain to stop spitting out words without consulting him first, “I mean, uh, y’know, pleased to help, anytime, it’s no problem at all! Anything you need! I-” Before he can do any more damage, he bites down - hard - on his tongue. Through all of that, Pete keeps giving him that amused look until he finishes it off with a nod and a chuckle.

 

“Alright, if I need anything, I’ll let you know. Thanks, Patrick!” He says before slipping out and closing the door behind him.

 

Patrick’s forehead hits the desk with a thump. 

  
  
  
  


Patrick isn’t  _ lonely _ per se. He’s alone most of the time, a little apartment snuggled away in Roscoe Village that he  _ had _ been sharing with a journalist, but he’d recently moved in with his girlfriend, so just him for now. There’ve been a few people around to take a look at his offer of the second bedroom, but he only got on with one of them and she never responded to his confirmation. It was almost easier to just pay rent by himself, really. He’d sometimes find himself casually checking the relevant email address, maybe responding to the odd person here or there, but somehow none of them seemed especially enthusiastic so he hadn’t bothered trying to arrange a viewing date. 

 

There had been a point where all four bedrooms were actually being used as bedrooms and Patrick thought his band would make it, but there were fights and people left and after that… well. He’s starting to like his own company quite a lot, really. And if he ever does feel like a chat, he’ll just knock on Mrs Finch’s door, the old lady is always happy to entertain him with stories of her past. 

 

So no, Patrick doesn’t consider himself lonely, really, just alone. Which is fine. He can live with alone. Though sometimes, especially in winter when it’s cold and dark and he’s snuggled up on the sofa underneath a patched-up blanket with his glass of whisky, he finds himself wondering if it wouldn’t be nice to have somebody to snuggle up with him. Usually, he’ll go for his phone, spend the next thirty minutes (or three hours, you get carried away), swiping through Tinder and the profiles of guys way younger and way hotter than him because everybody his age is either taken or single for a very good reason. He tells himself he only has a total of six matches in the entirety of Chicago because he’s the picky one, when actually, he knows full well it’s because he’s not capable of taking a good selfie and he also knows that is because he’s just not the most attractive of humans on the planet. Short, fat, balding. What a catch. He’s over it. Mostly. A part of him wishes he still had the physique he’d managed to obtain during his short shot at fame with that one solo album that tanked spectacularly, when he’d been skinny and handsome and - as he’d been told - a gorgeous little twink. 

 

But then again, he does like a tuna sandwich and is willing to sacrifice any physical beauty he could have for them. 

 

Chicago definitely has too many Brads. Brad is a certain type of man, tall, tanned, toned, always tops, always, because it isn’t gay if you don’t take it up the ass. Patrick has had his fair share of Brads when was the skinny little twink, he’s somewhat over them now. 

 

But his thumb pauses mid-swipe when he realises he’s just hid a not-Brad. In fact, this guy is so violently not-Brad it sets off butterflies in Patrick’s stomach. 

 

_ Pete, 40, 2 Miles.  _

 

Patrick bites his lip and thanks Apple for remembering who he’s been near and presenting them to him on a gold plate. Well, reddish-pink plate with a white flame in the middle. Oh, but he is gorgeous. It isn’t fair.

 

Out of mere curiosity, he swears, Patrick clicks through the photos. There’s a few of them, unlike his profile which has the one that’s necessary to even stand a chance. 

 

The first is a proper photo, taken by somebody else on an actual camera, black and white, up close to his smiling face from a slightly downward angle (and even then he looks amazing this isn’t  _ fair _ ), he’s wearing a coat and a hat, his eyes scrunched up in joy that makes Patrick wonder who’s made him laugh like that.It must be a bit older, his hair is considerably shorter than it was a few hours ago. He clicks on. This one’s in colour, in front of bushes or trees or something with leaves, Pete’s looking directly at the camera this time, once again grinning warmly and it looks real.  _ Not great at small talk and not up for ONS. My daughter has to like you.  _ his bio reads. Short, simple, to the point. Patrick clicks on. The next photo reveals a bit more of him, his bare chest, to be precise. It’s by the lake, he’s in nothing but his trunks, revealing a lean, athletic figure but not obviously muscular. Patrick’s cock gives an interested little twitch as he inspects the necklace of thorns tattooed onto him. 

 

His music taste is… interesting. Spotify top artists inform Patrick he listens to a mixture of Metal and Mumble Rap which makes him pause for a second, wondering what type of person this guy actually is, but his selected anthem - Hallelujah - seems fair enough. Patrick doesn’t think when he swipes right, but he does regret it immediately, flinging his phone to the other end of the sofa as he prays Pete isn’t one of those users that has premium and can totally see who swiped right on them. He should really,  _ really _ stop letting his dick make decisions for him. 

  
  
  
  


He doesn’t get the notification. No  _ You’ve got a new match! _ He hopes Pete just quietly swiped left on him with no further consideration, no silent judging of him, his face, his profile or his music taste. He was fully aware he was stuck in the 80s, approximately 38 critics had informed him of as much eight years ago. 

 

Still, as the weekend comes and goes and Tuesday afternoon looms on the horizon, he finds himself hoping little Mia will find something else to leave behind. He just has to get through 90 minutes of primary school kids bellowing down his ear first, during which he considers if switching to something a little more mellow might not be a smarter move than forcing All I Want For Christmas Is You and Feliz Navidad out of a group of kids who can’t sing and are mostly incapable of speaking somewhat convincing Spanish, Maria in the first row proudly leading the choir, her heritage letting her outshine the very clearly Very North American children. He’s not sure why he didn’t pick Silent Night, to be honest. 

 

With a resigned “that’ll do” he lets the bell dismiss the choir as he uttered a silent prayer to whoever might hear him that he won’t completely embarrass himself in front of the entire school when he proved himself incapable of leading a kids’ choir. 

 

He’s already in the process of packing his bag, disappointed that no forgotten scarves are to be seen lying around anywhere, when he hears a knock and the door scraping across the floor. Patrick would like to say his heart doesn’t miss a beat when he sees Pete peering around the frame, but that would be a blatant lie and lying so close to Christmas surely would make Santa angry. 

 

“Hey, uhm… was just wondering if you… have any sheet music? Maybe? For… for piano so I can accompany her. At home, y’know. For practice. I think she struggles on her own.” Patrick flushes red and starts grabbing for the loose bits of paper in his satchel, and Patrick being Patrick, of course the only thing that could happen was for the entire contents of his bag to go flying around him like rogue confetti. 

 

“Oh, shit, I… hang on, it’s… just a sec, I’ve got it right…”He totally doesn’t have it  _ right there _ , he’s flustering through a pile of disorganised sheet music and the occasional bit of homework he swears he’ll correct this evening, desperately trying to find just one copy of what he’s looking for, another prayer uttered, this time to Mariah. He looks up in alarm when just what he’s urgently looking for is held under his nose and, out of instinct, he snatches it to hand it over to-

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I was… I was kinda on autopilot, so… so, well, I…” Pete’s grinning widely, like on that one photo he came across yesterday, his eyes all scrunched up and his cheeks bunching and Patrick thinks he might die on the spot. 

 

“I think… it’s really nice you’re doing this. The choir thing. I can barely handle two singing children, let alone, what, fifty?” It’s thirty. Only thirty. But fifty sounds more impressive so Patrick doesn’t go to correct him, just turns an even brighter shade of red.

 

“Thanks, thanks, I… yeah, least I can do yanno and it gets me into like… actually doing music again rather than just.. Like teaching, so… so yeah, it’s… yeah…” Through his stupid ramblings, Pete nods on, his eyes concentrated and encouraging like he’s taking in every one of Patrick’s disjointed words. Does he  _ know  _ how cute he is when he furrows his brow? 

 

“You, uh.. play the piano?” Patrick asks, eager to keep the conversation going.

 

“Oh, yea, just a bit, yanno, took classes as a kid and that. I’m not really any good.” 

 

“I’m sure you’re better than you think!” Pete shrugs.

 

“Maybe. Dunno, not really played for anybody but myself or my kids for a while.” 

 

“You… kids? You have more?”  _ Of course he has more he just said he has two you buffoon. _

 

“Yeah, got a little boy, too. He’s four.” Four. Okay. Two kids. But no ring. And on a dating site. Divorced? Maybe? Something tells Patrick asking would be inappropriate, so he just smiles and nodded. 

 

“Anyway, thanks for the music! I appreciate it.” Pete is heading for the door, an appropriate reply would be  _ no problem, sure, anytime, _ something along those lines, but Patrick, desperate for the man’s attention, comes up with:

 

“If you want somebody else to judge your piano playing, y’know, I can like… check you out… I mean, like… check out your playing, y’know, I…” He wants to die. May the ground open up and swallow him whole and never spit him out. 

 

Pete just chuckles, already halfway out of the room, and replies: “I’ll think on it. See ya, Patrick.”

 

This time, his forehead meets the palm of his own hand.

  
  
  
  


He tries to get Pete out of his head ASAP, he too old to be having dumbass crushes, he’s just has to get him out of his system he tells himself when his hand sneaks to his cock that evening. He doesn’t last long, 30 seconds and he’s grunting heavily as he paints the shower wall white, the last evidence of his sin washed away with the sweat of the day. 

 

He tucks himself into bed with his laptop opened on Netflix, mindlessly blabbering away in the background as he scrolls through instagram, his way of catching up with family. Just as he’d reading his brother’s caption about their new dog, his phone chimes happily and hits him with a banner. 

 

_ You’ve got a match! _

 

Patrick’s teeth sink into his bottom lip. The app takes way too long to start in his opinion, a low fluttering on his belly accompanying the dumbass red flame. As soon as he can, he clicks on his recent chats and there, nestled at the very front of his six-now-seven matches is none other than the man he totally just didn’t fantasise about in the shower. 

 

Of course, the only reasonable reaction is to lock his phone and throw it across the room. 

 

Patrick’s stomach is no longer occupied by that low buzz, but is burning ablaze, nervous-excited but more terrified than anything. He only goes to retrieve his phone when another chime announces a message and he prays it isn’t from Kevin. 

 

It isn’t.

 

_ So when do u wanna check me out? _

 

Patrick blushes wildly.

 

_ Sorry _

 

_ I mean check out my piano skillz _

 

_ Obvs _

 

_ ;) _

 

His thumbs keep hitting the wrong keys as he types out his response.

 

_ Dunno uh Thursday? you free Thursday?  _

 

Patrick is free any day. He doesn’t really have plans, he just makes stuff up as he goes along. So far, that’s worked out in has favour more often than not. Just at this point if he wants Pete to know that he has no hobbies. 

 

_ I have a dance class on Thursday… but u can tag along if u want and then u can show me ur skillz _

 

Dance class. Patrick pictures Pete in a muscle top and a pair of shorts and immediately forgets that he himself has no affinity whatsoever to what Pete probably considers dancing and he’d look frankly ridiculous trying to breakdance along with a group of twenty year olds and hot dads. 

 

_ Sure that works, when n where? _

  
  


_ 7pm 3301 N Lincoln Ave whats ur shoe size? _

  
  
  
  
  
  


Patrick isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to wait outside the studio or just waltz in and sit in the cosy warmth until Pete shows up. But then again he doesn’t know where he’s going. Or which floor it’s on. Or if he can just happily waltz in. Or if Pete won’t end up waiting outside for him and he’ll end up looking like a dumbass. So Patrick wraps his scarf tighter around himself and leans against the wall, hand snuggled in his coat pockets.

 

His nose is just starting to turn into an icicle in the cold Chicago winter winds when he hears a familiar voice somewhere above him.

 

“Patrick? What the fuck are you doing down there, come on up!” 

 

He stumbles into the studio freezing and blushing, they haven’t even said hello yet and he’s already made a complete and utter fool of himself. 

 

Pete, obviously, looks incredible, beard freshly trimmed, hair slicked back, warm smile and dressed casually but still so well-coordinated, a burgundy t-shirt that closely hugs his chest and arms showing off enough for Patrick to want to see more. He didn’t have time to question the grey skinny jeans as Pete pulls him into a tight, almost bone-crushing, hug. He smells nice.

 

“I was wondering what was taking you, man! I thought you’d bailed on me.” Patrick just smiles warmly, not wanting to admit that he would definitely never ever bail on Pete because the likelihood of him ever ever  _ ever _ getting a date with somebody so far out of his own league like this again is nearing zero. He can’t let on he’s that pathetic just yet, or knock whatever sense has left Pete back into him, only for him to realise, hey, this kid is short, fat and balding, what the fuck am I doing here?

 

“I got you dancing shoes!” Pete holds up a pair of shiny, black shoes in a size 8 that make Patrick frown at him in confusion.

 

“Dancing… shoes?” He’d reckoned he could just stick on a pair of trainers and be off, it seemed the most sensible thing to wear when he was gonna be backflipping through the studio.

 

“Yeah, dancing shoes! You can hardly do a Waltz in those now, can you?”

 

_ Oh _ , Patrick thinks to himself as his chest seizes up with anxiety,  _ that sort of dancing. _

  
  
  
  


Thirty minutes later finds Patrick in the best position he could probably hope for. After the revelation that, not only was this a ballroom dance class, but it was  _ Pete’s  _ ballroom dance class,as in a dance class run by Pete, and an awkward introduction of “this is my friend Patrick, he’ll be my partner for tonight”, which lead to some dude near the back wolf-whistling at them, which, in turn, made Patrick want to shrivel up and disappear, Pete grabbed him, twisted him and knocked him into place until his left hand was on Pete’s shoulder, his right was grasping at Pete’s hand and his waist was being held by Pete’s free arm. He’s like a rock, guiding clueless Patrick around and - probably - making him look somewhat competent at a dance he last did at senior prom with his sister. 

 

He can still feel himself awkwardly stepping on Pete’s toes every few seconds, though.

 

“Sorry,” he hears himself mutter for what must be the millionth time as he feels a distinct squish beneath his foot. Pete, ever the saint, just shrugs it off.

  
“Y’know, for your first time you’re not doing too badly.” His lips are close to Patrick’s ears when he whispers it to him, sending shivers up and down the back of Patrick’s neck and apparently through his fingers, too, going by Pete’s satisfied smirk. 

 

“Not my first time.” Pete’s eyebrows raise in surprise.

 

“Alright, who had the pleasure, then?”

 

“Just my sister at prom. Did a few dance classes before, yanno. Basics.” 

 

“Oh, in that case you’re dreadful.” Patrick’s jaw drops open in mock hurt. 

  
“I’ll show you dreadful!” That nasty smirk reappears on Pete’s stupid face, complete with an evil glint in his eyes. 

 

“Oh, is that a promise?” To get his point across - and to avoid touching this topic in public because he is a dreadful flirt and is painfully aware of the eyes already glues on him - he stomps down on Pete’s foot. 

 

“Ow! You utter… oh, you’ll regret that!” 

 

And he does.

 

He regretted it immediately when, out of the blue, Pete throws him backwards. Frantically, Patrick’s arms wave wildly around his head, desperate to find  _ anything _ he can grip onto to steady himself, his eyes fly wide in panic as his world is tilted upside-down and he curses Pete for the head injury he’s sure to sustain when his skull smacks against the floor.

 

Suddenly, he comes to a stop, waits for the throbbing pain, but it doesn’t come. Even upside-down he can see people staring at him and his hat now lying on the floor and saying he feels like an utter clown would be an understatement. But Pete’s hand is strong behind his back, pressed between his shoulder blades, holding him tight and secure. Patrick feels dizzy when he’s hauled back to his feet, his hands flying to Pete’s shoulders and his vision is suddenly filled with honey gold eyes, still sporting that mischievous glint.

 

“I don’t like to be teased,” Pete mutters in his ear and when Patrick steps on his foot that time, it’s definitely more to do with his sudden loss of balance rather than a more evil motive.

  
  
  
  
  


“So how did you enjoy it?”

 

“I… I’ve gotta say it wasn’t exactly what I was expecting when you mentioned dance class.” 

 

“What were you expecting?”

 

“Dunno… like hip hop or something.” Pete barks a laugh into the cold Chicago night. They’re walking along side-by-side, hands in pockets, shoulders pulled up to their ears to fend off the biting cold. Patrick is fine with it. They’ve done enough hand-holding in the last two hours to fully satisfy Patrick’s desire for physical contact, at least on a first date. He presumes it’s a date. This is a very date-like activity, right? Is it a date?

 

Patrick thinks he should be insulted when Pete starts laughing to himself, it’s not subtle either, it’s full-on, head thrown back, roaring laughter. 

 

“Alright, bit of an over-reaction.”

 

“Sorry, just… can you imagine me doing hip-hop?” Something in Patrick’s chest settles down when he realises this wasn’t about the mental image of his fat belly wobbling about as he tried to keep up with buff men like Pete, but rather about Pete himself.

 

“Dunno I mean… you look kinda good in a muscle top…” Pete wiggles his eyebrows at him suggestively, earning a thump on his arm. 

 

“Shut up,” Patrick mumbles under his breath. 

 

“So are you gonna teach me piano or nah?” Oh. Okay. He’d sort of presumed that was just an excuse to get him out of the house but…

 

“Sure… sure why not I mean…”

 

“Actually, y’know what? It’s late I should probably… get the kids to bed with little noise, I.. I’m sorry I should think before planning really. Or plan before speaking.” Patrick ignored the niggle of disappointment and nodded along like he totally understood.

 

“Yes, absolutely, I get it, it’s fine, don’t worry at all!”  _ you little bitch _ .

 

Pete chews his bottom lip and  _ fuck you _ it’s so cute Patrick wants to grab him and squeeze but something is telling him it would be inappropriate.

 

“I can uh… how about I use it as a skilled excuse to see you again? Soon? Monday soon?” 

 

“I, uh…” Monday? In four days? So soon? Not that he has any problem with it, it’s a date with a hot guy, a  _ second _ date with a hot guy which is even less likely.

 

“Oh, is that to soon?? Fine, that’s fine, I’m sorry, I don’t wanna come off too eager I just thought because we didn’t get to talk much today and-”

 

“No, Pete, no, Monday is fine! Totally, I was just… surprised you wanted to see me again. So soon. I guess. But Monday works for me, totally!” Pete looks nothing shy of relieved.

  
  
  
  


Monday really can’t come soon enough. When it does eventually, after a weekend of sleeping on the sofa as his TV blabbers away in the background, Patrick, for his first time in years, goes to school wearing a shirt and the  _ nice _ pair of black jeans, the ones that are a bit more fitted and he tends to avoid because of its slightly too tight waist but he’ll endure it for Pete, he supposes. 

 

He’s going round right after his last period at 2, the kids will be at theatre group apparently, it gives them some time alone which Patrick isn’t sure what to make of. He’s put on some cologne just in case, and a pair of boxers that don’t have holes in them.

 

Nervously, he jiggles from one foot to another on the doorstep as he waits for Pete to buzz him into his apartment. It’s not far from his place, a few blocks down, the building seems nice from the outside and the door swings open without needing a kick, unlike his own. 

 

“Third floor!” he hears Pete’s voice echoing down the stairwell. Patrick reluctantly ascends the steep steps that ruin his nice, groomed look by landing him outside Pete’s door huffing and puffing like he’s just brought the news of the victory over the Persians to Athens. 

 

Pete, obviously, unfairly, looks gorgeous, even with bright purple, flowery oven gloves. 

 

“Patrick! Hi! Come on in, you can take a seat, I’m just finishing off lunch!” Lunch? Was this planned? Should he have known about this? Patrick awkwardly settles in one of the wooden chairs at Pete’s oval dining table. 

 

“I didn’t know we’d be lunching, I’d have… brought wine or something…” it’s a nice apartment, light wooden floorboard and white painted wall with pretty monochrome pictures hung up on it, completed with the odd children’s drawing. The furniture looks decidedly drawn-on.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Pete declares as he comes waltzing into the room carrying a big, steaming pan, “too early to drink anyway.” Patrick doesn’t argue, not because he agrees but because he doesn’t want to admit to being something of a day drinker on the rough ones. Pete doesn’t need to know. It isn’t anything serious.

 

“It’s just Pasta, anyway, pasta with lemony sauce, as my kids call it.” Pasta with lemony sauce is, at least when Pete makes it, lovely.

 

“It’s delicious,” Patrick praises as he shovels carbs and cream down his gullet, noting how Pete is gradually confirming that he is A* husband material, as he suspected. 

 

“Thanks. It’s Mia’s favourite so I figured it would be a safe bet, yanno. Decided not to do a Nigella for the first meal I cook you.” Patrick nods approvingly, not really sure what  _ doing a Nigella  _ means but hoping it’s nothing kinky. Whatever it might be, he feels lemony pasta was the safer option. 

 

“What’s um… your other kid’s name?” He asks between forkfuls of gloriousness.

 

“The little one? Martin.” 

 

“Oh, that’s my middle name!” Patrick declares happily.

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah!”

 

“My… my wife chose it.” Patrick takes note of the use of wife and he would be telling a blatant lie if he said it didn’t bother him just a little.

 

“Your wife?” 

 

“Uh, ex wife I guess. Technically. I’m.. yeah, I’m a widower. That’s a thing about me.”  _ Oh. _

 

Patrick is useless enough in social situations as it is, but confront him with emotional baggage and he’s about as helpful as a pin-cushioned baby wipe. The only thing he knows how to do is go by the book, meaning he awkwardly drops his fork and stares at his own hands for a few moments before mumbling: “I… I’m sorry about that.”

 

The worst thing that could happen now is if Pete were to go into the deep shit, the heavy emotions, Patrick can’t even deal with his own, let alone a stranger’s, let alone a would-be partner’s. But Pete just waves it off with a shrug, telling him not to worry about it, it was a long time ago. It can’t be  _ that _ long considering Martin seems to be a toddler, but he doesn’t want to push it.

 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats because he wants to lay his cards out on the table as soon as possible, “I’m… not good at emotions. Like at all. And I… it’s not that I don’t care I just don’t really know how to talk about… yanno… stuff.” It feels dumb saying it out loud, but Pete just nods along like he understands every word of Patrick’s.

 

“Okay, no worries, you’re not my therapist man. What are you good at? Like… communication wise? Like I just mean what can I easily talk about with you?” Patrick pauses for a second, lemony pasta halfway to his mouth. What’s he good at? 

 

“Music I guess. That’s how I talk I suppose. Like emotionally I mean. I dunno it sounds dumb but-”

 

“No, no, I get it”, Pete interrupts him encouragingly, “dude I… this is like, really dumb kinda because it’s no good or anything, but I used to write poetry.” Patrick’s ears pick up at that. Poetry. Speech with rhythm and melody. He knows that.

 

“Oh?” Pete suddenly looks a little awkward as he uncomfortably shifts about in his chair.

 

“Yeah it’s just some nonsense here and there, yanno. I was… something of a pretentious kid.” Somehow Patrick doesn’t find that hard to imagine.

 

“I’d love to see… I mean if you’ll let me.”He watches closely as Pete raises his water glass to his lips and slowly, ever so slowly, takes a big, long gulp, his throat working around the cool liquid, making his adam’s apple bob and Patrick bite his lip. Pete sets the glass down with all the calm in the world and a casual shrug.

 

“Maybe someday. After you’ve taught me the piano.” 

  
  
  
  


“Well, yeah, okay, that’s the basic idea of it…” Patrick mutters, more to himself than to anybody specific, as Pete semi-confidently hammers out the chords to All I Want For Christmas, syncopated with frequents “wait no”s and “fuck wait”s. 

 

“Okay, what am I doing wrong?” 

 

“Uhm…” Where to begin? “So do you like… know how chords work? Or do you like… sort of make them up as you go along?” For a moment, Pete looks at him like he’s grown a second head and is speaking Spanish whilst the other has opted for Russian. Then he drops the bomb that makes Patrick’s gut clench. 

 

“I google them.” If Pete were a student, Patrick would fail him instantly.

 

“Ouch dude.”

 

“What?”

 

“Google?” Pete just shrugs like it’s nothing. Okay, definitely some catching up to do here.

 

“So uhm… okay this is a chord.” He leans over Pete and plays a basic Cmaj. “It’s a basic C major chord, so you… you take the base note, the major third and the perfect fifth and just… okay, so, you know what major and minor is, right?” he reassures himself when all he’s met with is Pete’s stare and no indication that he just understood a single word of that. 

 

“Well.. okay, well, the base note is the one the chord is named after, so for C major it’s C, which is here as you probably know… I hope you know… and then the third is literally… one, two, three notes further up. Three whole notes. Not two and a half. That would be the black key but we want the white one. Okay, cool, so we’ve got the C, E and then the last note is th-”

 

The G doesn’t matter anymore when Patrick is suddenly dragged forwards by Pete’s fists coiled in his shirt collar until he feels Pete’s lips against their own. They’re soft, like he takes care of them, full, beautifully so, and warm and so much better than the dull, lonely fantasies that have been  filling Patrick’s life with a mirage of affection. His hand is in Pete’s hair before he can even think about it, fingers curling their way into it and gently pulling him closer because he wants to feel,  _ needs _ to feel, needs it to overwhelm him until he can’t breathe because he’d forgotten how good it was to have another person’s heat. Pete’s arms snake their way around his back and pull Patrick into his lap, Patrick straddles him, never breaking apart because,  _ fuck _ , Pete’s a hot guy, maybe the hottest guy he’s ever come this close to and he can’t can’t can’t let him slip away. 

 

They’re broken apart by a tiny cough filling the space behind them. Mia is standing in the doorway, hand by her mouth like she just cleared her throat pointedly, her other arm resting on her hip as she stared at them both accusingly.

 

“Inconceivable!” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


This choir thing was a bad idea. A god awful idea. The worst idea in the history of bad ideas. Patrick isn’t sure how he’s going to keep his legacy intact as the kids pile out of his room on Tuesday afternoon. He may have to beg for extra practice lessons during school time. The theatre kids get it, why shouldn’t he? Maybe he just needs to be a bit more authoritative. 

 

He’s about to leave the classroom when he realises he is not, in fact, alone like he’d thought. In all honesty, Patrick’s a little bit scared of the child which is probably a little weird but what can he do about it? She stares him down like she’s the teacher and he’s just been caught sticking gum under the desk. 

 

“Are you dating my daddy?” 

 

“Uuuuh” Patrick mentally tracks all his escape routes and decides the most effective is sticking his pencil in his nec, “I… I guess so? Can I-” Mia pointedly stands in front of him, arms crossed, “-no, no, it would seem I can’t, okay, that’s fine, that’s-”

 

“I have rules!” Oh,  _ she _ has rules? Okay then. 

 

“Will this… will you need a while because I have a-”

 

“ _ One,” _ she declared loudly, evidently not caring for Patrick’s made-up plans, “you don’t make me go away when you have a sleepover. You can send Martin, I don’t care but  _ I _ can stay!” 

 

“A… a sleepover… okay, well-”

 

“Two!” Mia steam-rolled on through her list and Patrick’s attempt at defending himself, “you get me birthday presents. If you’re gonna be in my life, I want birthday presents or I’ll tell daddy that you’re not a man who treats me right.” Patrick can’t do much but frown at that statement and wonder where on earth she picked up her phrasing.

 

“Three, you never ever make me eat tomatoes. Or I will find you and I will kill you.” 

 

“How… how often does your dad quote Taken at you?” Mia just looks at him like he’s dumb.

 

“Number four-” 

 

“Wait, wait,” Patrick finally manages to lodge in protest, “how many are there?” He’s hoping she’ll say five or seven. Even ten would be manageable, but he’s already forgotten what one is and isn’t convinced Mia will give him a copy of that neat little list she’s reading from.

 

“Thirty-three. Now, stop interrupting, it’s rude. Number four, you’re going to the Christmas dance with daddy so I don’t have to.” Patrick pulls up a chair and resigns himself to it. Something’s telling him this relationship is a bad idea.

  
  
  
  
  


“Hey! What’s up?” Pete’s wearing joggers and nobody should look that good in joggers, how is this fair, in what world is it actually fair for one human to bagsy all the hot? Patrick considers becoming religious just so he can challenge God on his logic. 

 

“Sorry I’m late, I got the full run of Mia’s rules…” A low groan came from Pete as he rolled his eyes, leaning back against the dining table. “Sorry about that… I’ve told her to keep it to herself but she’s evidently changed to now briefing my boyfriends when I’m not around.” Patrick’s stomach flips.

 

“Your…”

 

“My?” 

 

“Your boy...friends?” His eyes widen and he puts down the bowl of nuts he was nibbling on.

 

“Oh, god, sorry, too soon? Too soon, right? I totally just meant, you know… like people I date, I just…” Patrick does maybe the boldest thing he’s done so far in his life and strides through the hallways like he’s Ryan fucking Gosling in Crazy, Stupid Love rather than Patrick Stumph in a hot guy’s flat, takes his face in his hands and presses a kiss to his lips. He’s not expecting it to work, he’s not Ryan Gosling and Pete isn’t Emma Stone, but when he looks at him, lip caught between his teeth because he’s suddenly aware of how dumb he must look behaving like the hunkiest hunk, Pete’s pupils are blown wide.

 

“Okay  _ that _ was hot, do that again.” Ryan Gosling confidence gone, Patrick’s a bit more hesitant when he leans in again, gently touching their lips together, but Pete still feels warm and good and it’s nice to feel wanted. 

 

“You… think I’m hot.” Patrick deadpans rather than asks. It’s not really much of a question in his mind.

 

“Mmmh, I do.” An arm snakes around him, rests on his lower back and next thing, he finds himself standing between Pete’s legs, who’s now sitting on the table he was leaning on. Patrick’s pulled back into the kiss, only this time it’s wet, open-mouthed, hot,  _ dirty _ . 

 

“Come to the dance with me?” Embarrassingly, Patrick squeaks when a hand comes to rest on his arse, squeezing slightly. 

 

“I… I can’t dance” it’s not even an excuse. 

 

“Mmmh and I can’t play piano but I’ll come to your concert…” 

 

“You’re not performing.”

 

“You wouldn’t either, I have a partner for the formal stuff.” Jealousy and possessiveness are toxic and Patrick works hard on keeping them at bay. Still, the thought of Pete having a stranger touch him like that makes his stomach knot. It’s also kinda hot.

 

“What do you need me for then?” 

 

“Moral support.” 

 

“Hmm and what if I refuse?” Pete pouts at him.

 

“I’d be very very sad.” He punctuates every word with a kiss to Patrick’s skin, starting at his forehead, moving over his nose and lips down to his neck where his hairs stand on end and tingle with the thrill of it. 

 

“I’ll have to think on it…” The kisses don’t persist, trailing along his neck until he reaches the collar of Patrick’s polo shirt, nuzzling into him there as his fingers fumble with the buttons by his chest. Patrick’s interest in the situation is ever growing and he reaches out to trail his hands along Pete’s sides, catching his t-shirt as he goes, tugging it up enough to reveal a thin band of honey gold skin he’d seen on those photos. The sun suits him well. He also notices the obvious bulge in Pete’s sweatpants, the thought that he‘s the reason for it making his own grow inside his jeans.

 

“Fuck, Patrick, can I?” The temptation to say no is strong, Patrick’s never,  _ never _ liked taking his shirt off, even when he was at his skinniest, but Pete just told him he’s hot, just pressed kisses into his hot skin, is getting steadily more turned on by nothing but his presence. Patrick nods, catching his lip between his teeth.

 

“God I love when you do that,” Pete mutters as he licks over Patrick’s bottom lip, lifting his shirt up until it catches beneath his arms and then, as Patrick raises them over his head, pulls it off. 

 

He tries not to think about it too much, just goes back to pressing into Pete, pressing close, his fingers fumbling with the hem of his shirt once again but he’s not sure how exactly to convey that he wants it  _ off _ . Thankfully, Pete gets it, pulling back and whipping the grey t-shirt off in one clean move, revealing an expanse of tanned, toned skin, decorated with the dark tattoos Patrick’s only seen on photos and he thinks he might choke on how much he wants,  _ needs _ Pete. 

 

“Come here,” he mutters, dragging Patrick in closer, his hands stroking over Patrick’s skin and leaving hot trails over it as they kiss.

 

“Mmmh, want you…” Pete mutters against his lips, “want you want you want you.” Patrick can only mirror his lust, steadily growing until it hits the point where inhibitions go out of the window and he’s grappling for Pete’s waistband. 

 

He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing, he’s not touched a dick in years, but somehow Patrick manages to get his hand down his trousers and wraps his hand around Pete’s now fully hard cock. Hot breath hits his face as Pete gasps and he starts slowly jerking him off, keeping his grip tight. It feels odd, stroking a dick other than his own, but he soon gets the hang of it, sliding it out of its confinement and wrestling the sweatpants over Pete’s arse. 

 

They’re still kissing, still the sloppy, dirty kisses they started with, but Pete keeps pausing for breath, keeps sighing contentedly, when Patrick picks up speed, his breath hitches and turns into little moans of unbridled pleasure. 

 

“Oh… god Patrick…” he whines when Patrick pulls back from his lips, focusses completely on what his hand on doing, dead-set on getting Pete off, getting him to come all over him. Pete’s twitching, eyes screwed shut as he reaches for Patrick, trying to pull him closer again.

 

He smiles to himself.

 

“Needy…”

 

“Just for you, babe…” Pete gasps. “I’m close, Patrick, fuck… fuck… oh fuck, I’m gonna…” with a heavy moan, his hips stutter upwards as he releases, all over Patrick’s hand, his own stomach, his sweatpants. Pete falls back until he’s lying on the table like he’s been served up just for Patrick. He strokes over Pete’s sides, trailing his fingers along the muscle as Pete gathers himself again. 

 

He feels fingers hook into his belt loops, dragging him closer again as Pete sits up, sliding off the table and to his knees and Patrick’s just about experienced enough to know what happens next, even without Pete’s narration.

 

“Wanna blow you”, he mumbles as he undoes the belt buckle, the button, the fly, “wanna suck you off til you come down my throat.” Patrick’s breathing picks up, heavy and desperate as Pete peels his jeans and boxers off at the same time, tugging his dick down until it can spring free. He knows he’s big. Still, the reassurance is good for his ego.

 

“Fuck, you’re big…” it’s not even bad porn dialogue, it’s the truth. Unfortunately, it makes blowjobs a little tricky sometimes. 

 

Honestly, the feeling of Pete’s hand stroking his cock is already good enough to send him over the edge, but Patrick clings on with his last wits. It takes all his willpower not to blow his load when Pete wraps his lips around the head of his dick though, gently sucking at it as his hand keeps up a slow pace.

 

“Pete…” He’d almost forgotten how good it felt. Almost. “Pete, please…” Pete, ever the little shit, pulls off, leaving Patrick high and dry and wanting,  _ wanting _ so desperately.

 

“Say something, dear?” All Patrick can think to do is glare down at him, but the only effect that has is to make him  _ laugh _ which isn’t at all humiliating or anything. 

 

“Seriously, please, I’ve not got laid in ages, just suck my cock.” he attempts to reason, not expecting it to take him or his throbbing length anywhere. It works. Pete shuffles forward again, pressing light kisses to the underside of his shaft, tracing over it with his fingertips.

 

“You’re sexy when you’re bossy,” he says, the hum of his voice against his cock making Patrick’s knees buckle. Pete chuckles. “Steady, boy.”

 

“God, Pete, please, just… please suck my dick!” He curls his fingers into long, black hair, hoping to edge him closer to where he needs him, but Pete isn’t playing along, taking his time before he finally goes back to gently sucking at his tip. Patrick tips his head back, just allowing himself to feel as Pete starts bobbing his head, further and further each time until he hits the back of his throat. He carefully pulls back when he feels Pete’s throat tighten up at the threat of intrusion, but i held back by a hand on his arse, pushing him further and further in. 

 

“You… you can fuck my mouth… if you want…” Pete offers as he licks over his now raging cock, and yes, yes Patrick wants that a lot. He nods eagerly. “Okay. Just not my throat.” 

 

Pete’s lips part sucking Patrick back in, his amber eyes growing up at Patrick as he starts moving, shallowly at first but gradually inching further on each thrust, testing where the boundaries lie, keeping a close eye on every inch of Pete’s face, watching for any hint of pain or distress. 

 

“God,” he pants as he picks up speed, urgently fucking Pete’s face, “god your… mouth…” he looks good like this, on his knees in front of Patrick, mouth open and willing, eyes big and brown, his lips wrapped around Patrick’s dick, hard and sensitive and so, so desperate for release. 

 

He fells a tingling pick up in his groin, a familiar yet utterly distant pleasure that urges him on, makes him thrust with more urgency, move faster, faster,  _ faster _ until his panting turns into little moans and all he can think about it coming, coming, coming into that tight, tight heat, releasing and coming undone inside of Pete and then,  suddenly, before he can warn him, the tingling turns into pressure, going from barely there to overwhelming in a split second and he cries out as he thrusts as deeply into Pete’s mouth as he dares, coming hard and hot inside his mouth, his hips stuttering to a twitch as he releases.

 

He almost falls over when Pete drops his hands from his arse. 

 

“S-sorry,” he sutters through the last of his orgasm, “sorry, I- I-” he sees Pete wiping his lips and shaking his head. 

 

“Don’t worry,” he mutters as he stands up, “I told you that was what I wanted, didn’t I?” Patrick nods weakly as he slowly comes down from his high. He cans till taste himself on Pete’s lips when they meet his own. 

 

“Don’t worry. I wanted every drop of you.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


Patrick’s glad he thought of wearing a suit. He hadn’t been sure if this was a suit and tie sort of event, but going by the sort of dancing that was going to happen, he thought a regular tux was probably the safest bet, he could always lose the green tie if that turned out to be too formal. But as he watched the dancers below turn on the floor in unison he decided, yes, this was a good outfit choice. Not that his eyes ever left Pete, mind, twisting and twirling around his partner - a woman miraculously shorter than him -  in his black tailcoat that would sway along behind him. He looked nothing shy of the most drop-dead gorgeous human on the planet. And he was his. Patrick couldn’t believe his luck. 

 

He was on his third cheeky glass of wine and looking for his boyfriend, who’d somehow managed to slip off the dancefloor and out of his sight, when he felt hands on his hips and lips against the side of his neck. He hummed happily and leaned back into Pete, turning so he could catch his lips with his own. 

 

“How much have you had?” Pete asked, nodding at the glass. Patrick shrugged and tipped back the last of it. 

 

“Figure you can still dance?” 

 

“I figure,” Patrick decided, plopping the empty glass on a passing tray, “that I’m finally drunk enough to dance.” Pete’s huge, gleaming grin made Patrick’s heart skip six beats at once. 

  
  
  
  
  


“You look so good in that suit it’s almost a sin to take it off... “ Pete remarked as they climbed into bed later. Patrick, too tired, too drunk, too dizzy from dancing to verbalise just how beautiful, amazing, hot Pete was in a three-piece, any man’s wet-dream, too good to be real, nodded weakly, cuddled against Pete and muttered a near silent “love you, too” before drifting off.

  
  
  
  
  


It’s almost torture. Pete can’t help but think of Patrick as a Saint for committing to fifty screeching kids as he listens to their wailing fill the church. It’s not  _ bad  _ per se, just… exhausting. Patrick’s efforts in trying to make it bearable are more than just somewhat apparent, he’s frantically waving his little arms about, trying to get the kids to  _ crescendo _ but when they do, they do it with no finesse, completely missing their mark and belting out their notes with the force of a small explosion. 

 

Nobody questions the conductor though, valiantly ploughing through the score with no complaints other than winces and pained facial expressions. The congregation erupts in applause, probably grateful it’s over more than actually proud of their screeching children if Pete’s own feelings are anything to go by, and the kids beam down at them from their little makeshift stage. Patrick looks nothing shy of relieved it’s over as he comes waddling towards where Pete’s sitting in the front row on a reserved spot. Friends and Family. He’s certainly one of those. 

 

Pete gives him a quick peck on the nose, takes his hand and leans his head against his shoulder as Mia waves at him from where she’s still sitting by the altar. Pete isn’t really a church goer, but the school had assured them this wasn’t religious, it was a brotherly gathering of people from all backgrounds to “revel in the glory of a loving community”, which, in Pete’s mind, was an odd way to describe a load of school kids and their parents, but it’s kinda sweet. 

 

“That was god, babe.” It’s a lie. Patrick knows it’s a lie. Pete knows Patrick knows it’s a lie. Neither of them care.

 

“Thanks.” Pete presses a kiss to his forehead.

 

It’s nearly 11pm when they fall through the front door of Pete’s flat. Mia is excitedly hopping up and down recounting every second of her performance like they weren’t all there to witness it whilst Martin is fast asleep in Pete’s arms, propped against his shoulder as he tries to navigate through the cramped hallway to get him in bed. He stirs a little as Pete wrestles his little jeans off and slips his pyjama bottoms on, just to make sure he’s warm and cosy, but drifts back into a deep sleep after squinting at his dad from behind almost-closed eyelids. His thumb immediately finds his way to his mouth as he curls around his plush do and Pete presses a gentle kiss to the top of his head, tucking him in carefully. 

 

He thinks he can hear music from the living room, tries to pinpoint which record Mia’s made Patrick put on, but when he catches a glimpse of the scene, he stops in the doorway and smiles as warmth curls around his heart. He’s never heard Patrick signing before, didn’t even know he could, but it might just be the most wonderful sound in the world, paired with a sight that makes him melt. Mia’s sitting curled up on the sofa, grinning at Patrick as he gently meanders through  _ Silent Night,  _ accompanied by the tinkle of piano keys that fills the background. Pete wonders if either of them know it’s his favourite. And as his beautiful boy sleeps calmly in his bed and his gorgeous little daughter watches his wonderful, talented boyfriend sing the most peaceful Christmas song there is in a voice that Pete could only ever have dreamed of, he thinks maybe this season might just be magical after all.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading, kudos and comments would be fab, drop by on my [tumblr](https://scmi-sweet.tumblr.com/) if you want, I'd love to chit-chat. If you enjoyed this and you desperately need more to read, you can take a look at the [Merry little Peterick collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17121236/collections) or, dare I say it, some of my own work (I even have a [Christmas fic from last year](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13077402) and I posted an [entry to BBB](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16773694) a few weeks ago that's pretty neat-o if I say so myself). Have a luuurvely holiday my dears.


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